Free Hush by Kate White Page A

person who’d called her at the clinic yesterday had been a reporter who’d gotten wind of her name.
    Something unformed began to nudge her, but it was only later, when she was crawling into bed, that she recognized what it was: Keaton’s comment to her about a snag in his plan to be a partner. During today’s meeting in Levin’s office, there’d been no mention of any hitch. Either Levin had chosen not to bring it up in front of the associate doctors or the snag had only occurred in Keaton’s mind—and he hadn’t yet shared it with Levin.
    Lake anticipated hours of fitful tossing that night, but she fell into a stupor almost instantly. Twice she was jounced awake by nightmares. She couldn’t remember the first one—it evaporated as soon as her eyes shot open. In the other, someone called on the phone about her children—saying their names, laughing, and then hanging up.
    She woke with a start at six. For a brief moment she remembered nothing—but her stomach was knotted, as if she’d forgotten an urgent task. Then, like a tidal wave, the memory crashed against her. She hurried to retrieve the Times from on top of the mat outside her apartment door. The story was in the Metro section, a half-column long. It described Keaton as an L.A. ob-gyn and fertility specialist living part-time in New York. No mention of the clinic. So maybe the story wasn’t going to be huge after all.
    But later, at a newsstand on her way to the bus, she picked up the Post and cringed as she saw Keaton’s photo splashed across the front page with the headline: BACHELOR DOC SLAIN DOWNTOWN . The photo was like a Hollywood red-carpet shot. He was in a tux,emerging from some event, looking handsome and cocky, like George Clooney at the Golden Globes. She forced herself to read the story. This time it included the name of the fertility clinic.
    The Daily News had a more formal photo, the kind you’d see in a program for a medical conference. And this article had one new piece of info: Keaton’s super had found the body. When Keaton hadn’t shown up at the clinic yesterday, Levin had probably told Brie to try to locate him. In the course of looking for Keaton, his super had somehow been tracked down.
    When Lake arrived at work, she found that the mood was an awful mix of somberness and agitation; people were both despondent and all churned up.
    “Can you believe all the stories about this?” Maggie whispered to her as she set her things down in the small conference room. “I mean, it’s like the Laci Peterson case or something.”
    “Have any reporters called you?” Lake asked.
    “Not me in particular, but they’ve been calling here all morning.”
    Lake could see the strain on Maggie’s face.
    “How are you doing, anyway?” she asked. “Did your sister end up staying with you?”
    “Yes—but it didn’t do much good. I had the worst nightmares. I might ask Dr. Kline for some advice when he gets a minute today.”
    “Oh, he’s here?” Lake asked, realizing she hadn’t seen him since before all this happened.
    “Yes, he was away for a few days but he’s back now. He was totally shocked to hear the news.”
    Lake and Maggie agreed to try to get their minds off everything and get some work done. At five minutes to eight, Hayden Culbreth arrived, wearing a dazzling purple silk shift that contrasted boldly with her blond bob. As promised, she hit the ground running.
    “Let’s start,” she said to Levin as soon as Lake had introduced them.
    Sherman had joined them in Levin’s office, along with Hoss and Brie, notebook and pen in hand. Brie ran her eyes up and down Hayden, her disapproval loud and clear.
    “So far you’ve done a decent job of handling things,” Hayden announced. “By that I mean no one on your staff has blabbed to the press. But they still might be tempted to. We need to implement a lock-and-load strategy.”
    “Good God,” Sherman said. “It sounds like you’re suggesting firearms.”
    Hayden